


That's Christmas to Me

by Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Boys Kissing, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Family Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Mentions of the Best Buy Incident, Pete is Santa, but it's all fluff I promise, the actual night before Christmas fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 21:43:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13085955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace/pseuds/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace
Summary: As much as Pete adores Halloween, there’s something magical about Christmas.





	That's Christmas to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Here's my contribution to the Have Yourself some Peterick collection organized by [ SnitchesAndTalkers ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers), [ Das_verlorene_Kind](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind), and [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade) !
> 
> This fic is unbeta'd so I do apologize for any mistakes or grammatical errors ahead of time.

As much as Pete adores Halloween, there’s something magical about Christmas.

 

It’s hard for him not to grin as he takes a few steps back, marveling at his own work— The light-lit Christmas tree, so painstakingly decorated with a child’s touch, makeshift ornaments mixed artfully with pass-me-down. There are ribbons and candy canes, along with popsicle stick reindeers and pom-pom snowmen, aged glass baubles and worn wooden trinkets, some things old, some things new, but each having their own place on the tree, each a memory or a story illuminated by the brightness coming from the string of lights weaved lovingly through the branches of the sturdy fir tree.

 

Under the tree, nearly hidden beneath the branches filled with vibrant green needles, is a collection of presents, some big and some small, littered around the base, a sea of colorful paper wrapped boxes inscribed with names and decorated with glittering bows lay waiting for the morning sun to rise, for the sound of little feet to come scampering down as the joy that is Christmas morning fills the eyes of their sons.

 

Pete can’t freaking _wait_.

 

He feels himself thrumming, the blood in his veins singing of holiday cheer, Christmas carols ringing delightfully in his ear, jingling like sliver bell, as he looks over by the fireplace, stockings hang neatly and filled with tender care with toys and Christmas goodies that he and Patrick had thought the kids would enjoy, and not to mention, a little surprise present in Patrick’s stocking for good measure.

 

Everything was done and laid out in record time, just a little before midnight with some time to spare. While Pete worked his own Christmas magic, setting the scene for the perfect Christmas morning, Patrick has disappeared up stairs as he tucked the boys to sleep nearly an hour ago, worn from Brendon’s party. With the kids tucked in bed, the house peacefully quiet, the only sound filtering through the room was the gentle yet faint music floating through the room, the music of an acapella group from the Sing-Off that Patrick absolutely adored spinning on the record player tucked away on a bookcase shelf away from curious little hands. As he quietly moves to hide any evidence of him being the mysterious Mr. Claus, removing his shoes and his hoodie from the scene, Pete makes a small mental note to turn off the record player and tuck the vinyl back into its sleeve before as he makes his way upstairs. With one last look, he scans the scene, eyeing the plate of cookies sitting neatly over the fireplace.  He makes his way over to snatch a glittering sugar cookie from the plate that Saint and Declan had so meticulously decorated with heaps upon sugary heaps of red and green sprinkles, all while under Patrick’s watchful eye the day before. Pete takes a giant bite from one of the two cookies, and then gingerly places it back onto the plate without so much of a clink, making it look as if the jolly old man himself had enjoyed their sugar ladled confection.

 

“It looks good.” Mid-munch and slightly startled, Pete turns around and is greeted by the slight of his sleepy-eyed husband, still dressed in his Christmas party best—a button up shirt under an impossibly soft maroon cardigan, dark jeans, with sock glad feet, his fedora long forgotten, neatly perched on the entryway table, leaving cinnamon blonde hair soft and mused . A hand comes up to rub tiredly at his eyes beneath thick rimmed glasses, stifling a yawn as he does so, and if Pete was certain he couldn’t fall any more in love with the younger man, well, he was proved wrong, his heart soaring at the sleep-warm sight of his husband joining at his side.

 

“Kids all tuckered out?” Pete asks as he swallows the last sprinkle-covered bit of sugar cookie, brining his arm wrap around his shoulder, allowing his husband to mold into him, clicking beautifully together like lock and key.

 

Patrick nods, adjusting his glasses as he tucks himself into the older man. “Bronx knocked out like a light as soon as he face-planted the bed,” he begins to explain, relaxes into his husband’s side as he continues, eyes drifting shut. “Saint and Declan took a little longer. I swear they were still trying to burn off the sugar high from all Linda’s and Sarah’s cookies,” he chuckles softly, “But they fell right to sleep once I started reading _How the Grinch Stole Christma_ _s_.” From his spot leaning against Pete’s side, he inspects the tree, blue-green eyes glittering like ornate glass ornaments under the lights as he looks at the abundance of wrapping paper decorating the base. “You did good, Santa,” the blonde starts, eyes drifting to the plate sitting on top of the fireplace. “And you remembered to bite the cookie this year. Thank God.” he smiled as Pete shrugged nonchalantly. “How were they?”

 

“I totally didn’t want a repeat of last year when Dec and Saint were _devastated_ that Santa didn’t try their cookies...,” he recalls, remembering the teary eyed faces of their youngest sons when they realized Santa had not eaten at least one of the cookies that they had slaved over making the day before, leaving Pete and Patrick to fumble their way through a creative excuse as to why, but at least this year _Santa_ remembered.”And they _really_ good,” Pete grinned, kissing the crown of Patrick’s head. “I mean, like, they just went overboard on the sprinkles, but, like, I expected nothing else from my kids,” he laughed, causing Patrick to roll his eyes. “Of course any offspring of yours would be a sugar fiend,” he grumbles, “I swear, if I had let them, they would have dumped the whole container of sprinkles and chocolate chips in the cookie dough, and still slathered them in frosting.”

 

“That actually sounds fucking amazing,” Pete sighed dreamily, before dissolving into a soft laugh when Patrick’s elbow met his ribs. Hard.

 

“Sugar-addict.”

 

“Nope,” Pete says easily, and with a grace that could only come with two long time lovers, effortlessly moves behind the blonde’s, wrapping his tan, ink-decorated arms securely around his husband’s soft waist, as he tucked his face into the crook of his neck, lips gently kissing at the pale column of his neck, nipping playfully at a particular ticklish spot. “I’m a Patrick-addict.”

 

“You’re an idiot,” Patrick retorts, the words holding no malice as a smiles graces his lips, leaning back into Pete’s warm embrace, hands coming over to rest over the arms surrounding him as they bathed in the light of the glowing Christmas tree.

 

Another moment passes, and Pete could feel Patrick’s body begin to sag with exhaustion, even as he runs through his own mental list, one last check to make sure everything was done. “You put everything out, right? Even did the stockings?” Pete gestures over to the fireplace, which causes Patrick to hum contently seeing the stocking filled, a detail he overlooked when he noticed the cookies.“Good, thank you.” There’s another comfortable pause, another moment of linger silence before Patrick speaks again, and Pete could practically see the gears whirling in his husband’s mind just at the quirk and gleam of Patrick’s eyes. “We made sure to get all the stuff for breakfast right? I say we just stick with making pancakes in the morning after the kids open their presents, nothing too heavy, since we’re going to my mom’s for lunch, and then head over to  your parent’s house for dinner,.. Aw crap I still need to wrap your dad’s present, and  I need see if we have a decent looking bag for my mom’s—”

 

Pete is quick to silence the blonde with a press of the lips against his, stopping him mid-ramble, smiling as Patrick’s  shoulders begin to sag, the worry rolling off his shoulders in a slow and careful way, melting back into him. The bassist pulls away, but not before placing another chase kiss against petal-pink soft lips. “It’ll be fine, babe,” he calms with a smile, “ We have bags in the bag and tissue paper still, it won’t take us long to throw something decent together , and yes to the pancakes, I made sure to grab all the stuff this morning.”

 

There’s a nod in reply and a shine that comes through the sleepy haze of the younger man’s eyes, before his shoulders begin to suddenly shake with mirth and quiet disbelief. “Man, who would have thought we would be so _domesticated_ ,” Patrick laughs softly, honey smooth voice, “Ten years ago, I would have never thought I would have this, y’know? Never thought I would be doing the whole ‘ _night before Christmas_ ’ thing, like playing Santa for the kids and doing all this stuff, much less have a family of my own…” There’s a hint of something soft and sad, a melancholic tune coloring his tone as stand together, wrapped in each other’s arms.

 

Pete knows the tone all too well, knows it from his own musing from how far they’ve come, not just as a band, but as people, as souls lost in the crazy, hectic world of theirs, in the fame, the lights, the cameras, and the fans. Never once had it crossed their minds that any of this would be a true, that they would actually grow up and be happy, when at the time having a family was something that was never in the cards for either of them, something he vaguely remembers talking about in length in the back of a old beat up van somewhere between Texas and New Mexico on a sweltering summer’s night. They would have never thought, not in a million years, or in galaxies lightyears away that the two of them would have a family of their own, together...

 

Pete hums, thinking, taking in husband’s words with ever present love and patient, consideration while finding a soothing kind of comfort in the steady pulse close to his ear, where his head rests against Patrick’s shoulder, the beating of his own heart a bassline to the singer’s rhythmic breathing as he speaks his own thoughts aloud, a hushed whispered against the warm skin of his best friend. “Never thought I would even _be here_ to see this…”

 

Patrick to reach up, hands cradling his face with sure and attentive hands, guitar calloused fingers scraping through the rough grate of dark stubble on his cheek, coaxing their eyes to meet, Pete’s  looking more hazel than brown under the glittering lights of the tree. “But you are, you made it,” Patrick smiles warmly, his thumb moving to brush against the deepening crinkles alongside his eyes as he smiles the beginning of white sprinkled in his stubble, signs of aging, of growing up, of _living_. Pete sees it now, especially now as he leans into the warmth of his palm, taking in the softness of Patrick’s features, and the maturity that shines in once naïve and terrified eyes. “We both did. We did it when neither one of us thought we could, and look at where we are. We have the band back, we have each other back, and we’re doing something we love,” Patrick’s face breaks into a shy little grin, as his hands drift down to his neck, moving them so that they cross neatly behind his neck, arm coming to rest on his shoulders as his eyes look into Pete’s, “And not to mention we got three crazy, rambunctious, but fucking amazing kids to prove it.”

 

And it’s almost innate, like something ingrained into the very fiber of his being, to let his arms twine around the singer’s waist, bringing them flushed together as Pete pulls him into a kiss, a careful press f lips growing heated and almost desperate, trying to pour their love into each other with every intoxicating kiss. “Yeah, we did it, didn’t we , Trick.”

 

And as if the saints above could hear them, a soft melody came drifting through the room, something low, haunting, and bittersweet for the both.

 

_“I heard there was a secret chord_

_That David played and it pleased the lord,_

_But you don’t really care for music, do you?”_

Patrick stiffens a little at the verse, and moves from his spot, warm and wrapped in Pete’s arms, to turn off the record player, to gently lift the needle off the vinyl, to end the song that so often filled them both with memories of rattling pills in an empty Best Buy parking lot, of frantic calls and hospital rooms, of the night that Pete, now stable and strong, nearly lost his own battle in a feeble attempt to quiet the voices in his head, the demons that plagued him, that fueled his writing, that dragged him into a desperate misery….

 

But a firm yet gentle hand stops him, fingers carefully cupping around his wrist, fingers brushing over the fluttering pulse underneath snowfall soft skin. Patrick finds himself freezing, before being pulled back into Pete, like the waves when the moon is high, drifting out onto the shore, only to be pulled back into the ocean. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Its okay,” Pete soothes. “Let’s just…let’s just listen.”

 

The blonde nods as they stand there, in the center of the living room, their living room, arms wrapped around each other as the song plays, and they listen. It’s a beautiful rendition, Pete’s not going to lie, and he can appreciate a good cover of a classic when he hears it, but when it comes with Hallelujah… it’s nostalgia. Before, he would automatically think back to the cold numbness rushing through his veins as he sat in the parking lot, think back to Patrick’s desperate pleas for him to talk to him, to stay on the line and keep conscious as the pills worked through his system…

 

But now, it’s a reminder of what he has now, of the what he’s over come, the life he has now because of it and how easily it could have all been snatched away if he has only successfully swallowed another handful of pill. The incident almost reminds him of Christmas, in a bizarre sort of way, he thinks as Patrick leans heavily against him, holding him, securing him. Both the incident and Christmas make him realize what kind of life he has, how fucking lucky he is to still have Fall Out Boy, to be happy, to Patrick and to have a family, it’s almost like a reality check, a count your blessings moment, tied in with the spirit of what love and happiness is….they’re pretty much similar in it’s own morbid way— it’s funny how a near-death experience can give life a whole new perspective.

 

But Pete’s thankful.  He’s thankful to be alive, to be a father and a husband, and a friend. He’s thankful to be given another fucking chance, and this time, he wasn’t going to waste it.

 

“I love you,” he feels Patrick whispers into his shoulder as the final song dissipates into a fading hum, breaking the silence and cutting through the thoughts in his mind, calling him back to reality, beckoning back to shore, bringing him home with a warm and glowing light.

 

“I love you, too.” There’s another kiss, a promise between long-time lovers, of partners in life, and best friends, shared between them, words formed into a heated kiss,  time old vows, of for better or for worse, before they make their way up the stairs and to their bedroom, letting sleep consume them, blanketing their entangled forms as they lay heart to heart.

 

 Come Christmas morning, they’ll wake up to the sound of three sets of feet rushing down the stairs and then scrambling back up, tumbling over each other to reach their room. The door will open and delightful cries of “ _He brought presents!”, “Santa came!”_ and _“He was really here! He ate a cookie!,”_ as the boys climb into their bed to wake them up.

 

Dragged from their beds, the five will stumble down together, Pete and Patrick still sleep-warm, but giddy as they  watch their children and their Christmas glee,  Bronx will hand out presents, when they settle around the tree, Pete’s phone recording the madness, as Patrick leans sleepily against his shoulder, a soft but loving grin coming over his features as Saint and Declan unwrap their presents with the help of their big brother. There will be presents for Patrick, new mixing headphones and a state of the art recording mic to add to his ever growing collection, and just as many for Pete, a new piece of artwork from one of Pete’s favorite artists to hang in his office, along with some designer sneakers that Patrick noticed Pete had been eyeing for some time. And there were other presents as well, a hand painted coffee mug, a new guitar strap, a remote control car, a fairly complicated looking Lego set, and a science kit. There’s going to be a mess, and the kids will be even more hyper once Pete serves them syrup drenched pancakes, but its Christmas, and their together, and if Pete was going to be honest, that was the only thing that mattered—that despite everything, all the trials and tribulations, the heartache and the joy, they had overcome it all _together._

 

They were here, happy and thriving fathers of three, survivors of the limelight, the golden boys of Chicago underground, the Kings of the Punk Rock scene, but none of that matter while sitting around the Christmas tree with their plates filled with pancakes and syrupy  smiles filling the room. It was time for making memories, and basking in the joy of the day, savoring the moment and the utter feel of family, hope, and love.

 

After all, that’s what Christmas is about.

**Author's Note:**

> I think the ending is super rushed, but I really had no clue where to go with it, but I hope it wasn't too horrible! 
> 
> The music referenced in the fic is by Pentatonix, and seriously, go listen to their version of Hallelujah, it's absolutely breathtaking. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed and and early Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!


End file.
